Chrissy
[No words, just a picture. This one:]
Katy
Picture the scene: I slave away in luxury fashion for four years only to see Peaches fricking Geldof sat front row at LFW. And yes, to your left, that’s moi in new season pajamas logging onto all the action via vogue.com in the ever glamorous location of my East London lounge. Play fair, fashion fate (Bitter? Moi..?)
Jo
Still in abject horror/admiration for the Ahsish bedecked lady hovering on the cobbles of Somerset House, who when asked for her name post street style photograph replied –
“I find first names so…. gauche”.
Natalie
Air kissing, shoe switch-over (from sky scraper heels to flats), The Hat Lady, flash bulb photography, queing, survival of the fittest, Vitamin Water, ‘can I take yur picture?’, pre-show stampede, post-show stampede, effortlessly beautiful off-duty models managing to make your feel fugly, fat and frumpy; cobbles, sunglasses worn indoors, outsize bags, champagne, canapés, after-show parties, taxis, round of applause, the horsey model runway walk. Annnd repeat every six months.
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Comments
K
Jutting ribcages and pointy elbows.
That look of jaded boredom on the front row – you know, the one that makes people look as if their facial features are about to dribble off their chin.
Champagne breath.
A general feeling of inferiority and utter bafflement AT ALL TIMES (from me, that is)